


omni devotione

by CloudCover (RainyForecast)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Fictional Religion & Theology, Hockey Gods, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-23 06:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19145068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/CloudCover
Summary: They’d told him, at the beginning, that Sid was devout, an obedient follower of the old gods.Still a child, Zhenya had laughed, careless and free of concern. “I’m Russian,” he’d said with a shrug. “We killed our gods.”He knows better than to laugh now.





	omni devotione

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XylophoneCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylophoneCat/gifts).



They’d told him, at the beginning, that Sid was devout, an obedient follower of the old gods.

Still a child, Zhenya had laughed, careless and free of concern. “I’m Russian,” he’d said with a shrug. “We killed our gods.”

He knows better than to laugh now.

 

***

**November 2015**

 

He takes one look at the drawn, tight lines of Sid’s face, and knows he’s going to the Sanctum.

He’s come to recognize the signs instantly, and to hate them deeply, with a dark, bitter loathing that clogs his throat and scrabbles in his chest with icy, grasping hands.

Sid is going, and Zhenya has learned by awful experience that there is nothing he can do to stop him.

He always tries, though. He catches at Sid’s arm in the hall, and Sid turns that terrible, blank expression to him and plants his feet.

“Let go, Geno. It’s angry. You know what has to be done. Duper—” His voice and expression both crack, pain and sorrow bleeding through.

Zhenya has no response, nothing he can say that would fix this or ease the heartbreak. Slowly, he lets go, and Sid steps away from him.

“You know I have to,” he pleads. “I’m the captain.”

Zhenya nods, because they have had every version of this argument over the years, and he is so, so weary.

Sid turns, and walks slowly down the hall, to where the ornate doors of the Sanctum await him.

And Zhenya lets him go.

 

***

 

In Russia, the Bolsheviks tore down most of the shrines during the revolution. Zhenya had never even seen one until his first international tournament.

North America, though? They’re everywhere. There’s a Sanctum in every arena as a matter of course. Each club has their god just like they have a logo or a mascot. Zhenya has noticed them often in a strange assortment of places, among them universities, hospitals, casinos, and, for some reason, gyms. His theory is that the gods sniff out human desire and need like sharks seeking blood.

And where else would you find more desire than an arena of thousands of people, screaming with bloodlust for a shared victory?

Mario paid his dues when he was captain, and now, the burden has fallen to Sid. When Consol was built, its Sanctum was rumored to be one of the most ornate and hallowed in the league.

“‘To whom much is given, much will be required’,” Sidney had recited diligently to Zhenya early on, in an attempt to make him understand the importance of honoring the gods. “And I’m so, so lucky, G. To play hockey, to play it here, to play with _you_.”

Zhenya didn’t fucking believe in luck and wanted to say so, but he didn’t have the English back then, either to explain that or to express things like how eerie he found the fervor in Sid’s eyes sometimes. Or, how, at other times, Sid’s presence and touch lit him on fire.

And so he said nothing at all.

 

***

 

Zhenya does what he always does, and waits in the hall, boring holes in the carved reliefs and symbols on the doors with his gaze. Sometimes Sid is in and out in the matter of an hour. Once, in the darkest days of his concussion, he was in there for a whole day and a night.

Zhenya is Anathema, the Unanointed. He cannot go inside. The consequences of him doing so would only make things infinitely worse for Sid, for them all. So he waits. Waits for Sid to stagger out, god-marks shining on his forehead and hands, eyes unfocused and empty.

That’s the worst of it, the way that everything Sid is seems to flatten and fade after a visit to the gods. As long as the marks remain, he seems vacant, only resembling anything close to his old self when he’s on the ice. An automaton hollowed out to do the bidding of his deity. Zhenya hates it.

He’s too old to lie to himself. He loves Sid. Everything that he is: driven, hardworking, kind, a little neurotic, too pleased by far with his own lame sense of humor. Everything. And nothing feels worse than to see all that fade away under divine influence.

Zhenya thinks a residue of the old revolutionary fervor must still be left in his blood. Nothing, he thinks sometimes, would please him more than to do a little shrine-burning of his own.

 

***

 

Sid is in the Sanctum for two hours this time, before the doors open and he staggers out, retching, heaving breaths shaking his body like sobs. Zhenya’s heart cries out, as it always does, but he can’t touch Sid. Not yet. Not while the marks are this fresh. He’s learned that by awful experience, too.

Incrementally, Sid’s breathing normalizes, and he raises himself upright. Zhenya’s skin crawls. Sid always moves strangely right after, like a marionette not under his own control.

He moves slowly forward down the hall, eyes distant, face empty. He pauses when he is alongside Zhenya but does not look at him.

“Duper will live,” he says, voice laden with the strange harmonics that will last as long as the marks will. “There’s going to be a new coach.”

Then he continues down the hall without looking back. Zhenya watches him go. The crowds will roar in approval when they see the god-marks on him tonight, proud of the sacrifice of their team’s captain, his strength and devotion. Shining proof of the favor of the gods.

 _Damn them,_ Zhenya thinks. _Damn them all._

 _Especially you,_ he directs at the Sanctum doors. _Fucking damn you._

 

***

 

The very worst thing is this: once when it had been a long time between visits and Sid had been very, very drunk, he’d slurred into Zhenya’s shoulder: “Fuckin’...hate it, G. Hate it so much. Gotta do it, ya know? I’m the...the captain. S’big respons- resonsibilty. But I _hate_ it, G. Sometimes I think….there won’t be any of me left, in the end.”

And then he had started to cry unstaunched, inebriated tears into Zhenya’s shirt. And Zhenya, also drunk, had been able to do nothing but wrap ineffectual arms around him and hide his own tears in Sid’s over-gelled hair.

 

***

 

“Whoa, Captain been to the god closet?” one of the rookies whispers, before he’s cuffed in the shoulder by a veteran for being blasphemous within earshot of Sid and the coaching staff.

Sid is sitting bolt upright in his stall, marks shining and eyes far away. As Zhenya continues to watch him, he turns towards Zhenya. The movement is a little wrong, the swivel of the shoulders just a little too out of step with the turn of his head.

He looks at Zhenya, and it’s like there’s something else in there, looking out of Sid’s eyes. Then it smiles at Zhenya with Sid’s mouth. The shape of it is nothing like Sid’s real smile, and Zhenya’s skin crawls. This is the worst it’s ever been. Pointedly he turns away from Sid, and viciously tightens his skate laces. He can’t fucking wait for this to be over.

 

***

 

They win the Cup.

Zhenya clutches at Sid, both of them soaked to the skin and reeking of sweat and alcohol. Sid buries his face in Zhenya’s neck and for a moment, the aches and pains and the price they all paid to win, Sid most of all, don’t matter. They’ve won.

 

***

 

The following year is grueling. The high of being champions has to suffice for adequate summer rest, and their tired bodies shatter against the relentless grind of the season.

But.

They make it. Columbus batters them in the first round, but they win the series 4 to 1. Then, they face the Capitals in round two.

In Game 3 of the Eastern Conference semifinals, fucking Niskanen cross-checks Sid in the head.

He lies on the ice for too long, and he is slow, so slow, in rising to his feet.

Zhenya wants to set the world on fire.

 

***

 

They don’t hear anything until after the game, and even then it’s just that Sid is getting looked at and that they’ll be informed of any updates, et cetera. Zhenya’s gut churns, and when he locks eyes with Flower across the room, his feral grimace echoes what Zhenya feels.

Flower rips off a piece of stick tape with his teeth and slaps it onto the back of his mask, where Zhenya knows he has Niskanen’s name written along with the other former teammates he’d previously wanted to honor.

It’s infinitely less than either of them would like to do to the man, but it’s all they can do, besides kick his gods-forsaken ass out of the playoffs.

 

***

 

They have one much-needed day of respite before the next game, but Zhenya can’t sleep. Can’t focus on anything, can’t _do_ anything besides jump every time he gets a phone notification. It’s noon before there’s any news, and it’s just a message telling him that there’s a mandatory team meeting at one.

The message blurs and Zhenya grips his phone so tightly the Louis Vuitton case creaks in protest.

Breathe. He has to breathe. Sid’s going to be out for a little while, probably, and they need to talk strategy. That’s all.

That’s all.

 

***

 

They pack into the room where they usually watch tape. The lights are dimmed, and Zhenya learns why when Sid walks in, ball cap pulled low over his eyes. He moves carefully, like he’s made of glass and is trying not to shatter. Zhenya wants to go to him, enfold him in his arms, assure himself that Sid’s all right, but that’s not something they do and then the coaches walk in, and then management. The owners. Mario looks drawn and exhausted, and when Zhenya sees the expression on his face, he knows.

He can barely hear the words past the roaring in his ears, he only stares at the bright glitter of unshed tears in Sid’s eyes, the sickly cast to his face.

Zhenya thought he’d been well-acquainted with anger before. It had been his trademark, after all. Evgeni Malkin, the Russian Bear. Don’t provoke him, you’ll be sorry.

He’d been wrong.

He’s never felt a rage this bitter and complete, rising in his throat like bile. Never had a haze overtake his mind and body like this, leaving him on his feet, trembling in a rictus of fury.

He might have shouted something, he doesn’t know. He only knows that Sid is looking at him, pale-lipped and broken, trying to shake his head before he winces in pain.

Zhenya is moving. He’s walking down the steps of the tiered seating and he’s shoving his shoulder, hard, into whoever it is who steps in front of him on his way out of the door.

Out, down the hall, towards the ornate doors. He needs something in his hands. He needs to hit something, destroy something. Make something pay for what’s happened to Sid.

He doesn’t care that he’s not Anointed. He throws the Sanctum doors open so hard they crash into the walls on either side.

Behind him, he is dimly aware of shouts, of Mario’s thunderous command of “Geno, _no!”_ He doesn’t care. He is beyond caring.

He stands on the threshold, getting a good look at the inside of the shrine for the first time. He notices nothing, except that it all glitters silver, and that there is an altar with a pile of items, mostly pucks.

There’s one on top that’s split in half and the sight of it — _fuck, its the one from Sid’s 100th goal and his 200th point, he has the other half at home_ —is what pierces through the fog of rage and allows him to find his voice again.

 _“Is this how you repay your faithful?_ ” he screams. “ _He gave you everything, and you fucking let this happen? Huh? ANSWER ME!”_

He takes a step forward, into the shrine itself. There’s a sudden gust of air, sucking the doors shut behind him with a crash.

Everything is sudden, muffled silence, save the rasp of Zhenya’s breathing.

Awareness crawls slowly up his spine, like a thousand insects with icy feet.

He’s not alone in here.

 

***

 

It’s there, in the corners of his vision, but somehow not when he tries to look directly at It. It moves in the blinks of his eyes, like something caught in a strobe light. It is in the corners of the room, and then in a moment shorter than a heartbeat, It is right in front of him, around him.

Everywhere.

He can feel that It is almost amused by his blasphemy. Amused enough that It would suffer him to speak.

Zhenya’s throat is bone dry, and it clicks when he tries to swallow. The air feels heavy, but he forces it up out of his lungs anyway.

_“Why?”_

**Why is meaningless to Me**

_“You need to-”_

**_Oh?_ **

**I** **_need_ ** **to?**

Zhenya freezes, doesn’t even dare to think.

Everything is still for long, long moments.

A ripple of sensation, like the air around him shudders. It is laughing.

 **Your insolence amuses, audacious one** , It says, and Zhenya’s terror ebbs a little now that he knows he is not going to be extinguished immediately.

 **I wonder,** It continues. **What a vessel like you would feel like.** The god laughs again, making Zhenya’s skin crawl.

**Of course, you are Unanointed. It might kill you. But, if you want to do something for your captain...**

_“If you heal him, you can do what you like with me.”_

Despair clogs his throat, but he holds his arms out, like he’d seen in an illustration the one time Sid left a holy text lying open on a table.

It looms over him, at once both insubstantial and the only real thing left in the room. Reality warping and folding in on itself, over and over. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

It hangs there, poised, for the space of a breath.

 

And then

 

It

 

 

***

  
  
The body is not used to this. The body was not prepared properly. It thrashes and shakes, and They think perhaps it will not hold.

Light blazes from the backs of the hands and the forehead. It’s bright silver, not gold, which is interesting. The mouth may be screaming, but that is of no importance. Well, it is important to part of Them, but it is not a strong part and thus has no say.

They adjust, settling Themselves into the body and taking a firmer hold on things. The body stills. Their power is almost too much, the sensation is of a bubble, stretched to the thinnest possible membrane, barely able to contain that which fills it. Interesting. Novel, even. They are pleased, it has been a long time since They experienced something novel.

They raise the body to its feet. This vessel is taller than the other. Pleasing.

Their absorption as they turn their hands this way and that distracts Them. They release Their hold on the doors, and they fall open under the pounding fists of…

Oh. The old vessel. They turn to look at it. Part of Them understands the expression on its face as horror.

They can see it now, the damage inside it’s head. They do not have any use for something broken. But there has been the striking of a vow.

They move the body forward.

“Geno?” the vessel says. “Oh, gods. Why the fuck’d you do that?”

They study it. Extreme distress. It is always a little easier for Them to recognize such things when They’re occupying a vessel. Not that They have all that much patience for it.

They reach out and lay the hand on the old vessel’s forehead. They let Their power surge. The old vessel falls at Their feet.

 _What did that do_ , the part of Them belonging to their vessel silently screams.

 _What you wanted_ , They reply.

They crouch. The old vessel stares up at Them.

“You will need a few days of rest,” They tell it. “But the broken parts will be mended.”

The old vessel’s face twists. “Oh gods, Geno. Gods. Are you still in there?”

They feel irritation. “Of what importance is that?”

“You weren’t even prepared, you had no idea what you were taking on, why—” There are tracks of water shining on its face.

They riffle quickly through memories, looking for something to answer the question. “Interesting. You were devoted to Me but the new vessel was devoted to you. It was a fool to place its devoutness with a human instead of with the gods, where its service belongs.”

They pick further, and They find something else. They cock the head to one side as they consider it.

“It loved you. More than it loved anything else. Again, nothing but foolishness. Now. We have things to do.” They get up and take the body down the familiar hall to the dressing room. They want to get on the ice.

 

***

 

The crowd roars like an oncoming storm when they see the god marks upon the vessel the following night, blazing silver from the vessel’s hands, head, and eyes. Desire and need crest over Them like a wave, heady and dark. They feed and it is delicious. So much fervor, so much want. They are so much closer to the surface in this vessel, Their control so much more complete. They will enjoy this.

 

***

 

“Has he eaten anything?”

It’s their old vessel, standing in the doorway of the shrine. They turn the body to face it. “We fed.”

“I don’t mean at the game. He needs to be eating physical food. A lot of it. And he needs to sleep, or at least to sit down. Fuck.”

This is trying. The emotion bleeding from the old vessel tastes unpleasant.

“You forget your place.”

“Do I?” The vessel steps inside. Bitterness clouds its energy. “I served you willingly. I was blessed and so I knew what I owed the gods. But Geno had nothing to do with that. They don’t even have shrines where he comes from.”

“Healing was granted to you.”

The vessel stares at Them. The body’s heart beats nine times.

“I’d trade my career for Geno in a second. I’d give up hockey for him, do you understand?”

The old vessel has advanced upon Them and is holding the shoulders. It shakes them as though it could somehow shake loose a god. Its energy lies sharp upon the air.

This is an irritation.

The old vessel slumps against the body.

“I thank you for this gift, but you have to let him go. Or he’ll die.”

They understand the cessation to be, They have seen it happen infinite times before. It would terminate Their indwelling, and they do not wish that.

“Very well,” They say with the mouth. “We will let part of Us sleep.”

They pull back, the silver dimming on the hands and the face, and

 

it

There’s fire roiling under Zhenya’s skin. He’s stretched too thin, he’s going to tear open like paper. He’s collapsing against Sid, borne down to the floor, dry-heaving up nothing as his body convulses in the wake of the god’s retreat.

Blacks spots dance across his vision and Sid’s voice blurs and warps, but a few words reach him.

 

“Geno, you stupid fucker, why-”

“-need to get some water into you, it-”

“Hey, can somebody he-”

“-hold on, baby-”

 

There, that. There’s something about that—

But then there are more hands and he’s being pulled to his feet, and he needs to devote all his energy to not passing out.

 

***

 

He’s not sure how much later it is. He’s in the trainer’s room, and there’s an IV in his arm. He’s got a disgusting protein bar that he’s taking little bites of as he’s able.

Sid’s over talking to the doctor, brow furrowed and hands gesturing. After a while, Sid nods, and the doctor pats him on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Sid sits down next to him with a sigh. The circles under his eyes are deep.

“What day’s today?” Zhenya asks.

“Thursday. You’ve been under two days. Longer than I’ve ever been, and deeper. What the hell, Geno?”

Zhenya shifts on the table, and the paper cover rustles. “You hurt, can’t play any more. And I’m angry, so.”

Sid reached forward and brushes the hair off of Zhenya’s forehead, expression distracted, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. It’s almost a maternal gesture and Zhenya smiles, imagining Trina Crosby doing the same to a tiny Sid.

“It’s only dormant, Geno. It’ll be back. Our bodies aren’t meant to hold them, not for long. Geno—”

Sid’s voice cracks horribly, and an unkind part of Zhenta wants to say, “now you know how I’ve felt all these years.” But he wouldn’t cause Sid more pain for the world.

“Had to do,” he says, and thinking of that touch to the forehead, reaches out to brush his fingers against Sid’s cheek.

Sid clutches at his hand. “I don’t— it told me you loved me.”

There is nothing left but honesty.

“Yes.”

Sid bows his head. His knuckles are white and his grip hurts a little. Zhenya makes a soft sound of protest and Sid’s fingers loosen instantly.

“You— you motherfucker,” Sid says, and Zhenya smiles because the tone said something completely different.

Sid leans down then, and kisses Zhenya on the mouth, hard, and almost painful.

The alien fire is still writhing in, and in, and in on itself inside Zhenya’s chest, but right now, he hardly cares.

 

***

 

He drifts, deep exhaustion taking hold after he’s hydrated and eaten something. He’s not sure how long he sleeps before voices and light from the hall wake him.

Mario and Sully walk in, along with a couple other familiar-looking higher ups whose names Zhenya hasn’t bothered to remember. Sid joins them, looking grave as he takes his seat next to Zhenya’s head.

“So, Geno,” Mario says, and he looks tired, lines of stress carved more deeply than usual around his mouth. “Clean bill of health for Sid. He’s been cleared to play.”

Relief spreads through Zhenya. The god had said so, but somehow it hadn’t felt like reality until Mario had declared it.

“You, on the other hand,” Mario continues. “We’ve got a problem. I, we, appreciate what you’ve done for Sid, but this…” He shakes his head, at a loss.

“It’s going to kill him,” Sidney says quietly. “If we let it. And I’m not letting it, I’d like to make that clear right off the bat.”

Mario’s lips tighten in a grimace and he sighs. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Sid—“ one of the expensive suits says, and Sidney stares flintily at the man.

“David. I’m not fucking trading Geno’s life for a few more years of hockey. I’ll take a sledgehammer to the whole fucking thing myself, first.”

The other men all flinch. Zhenya is suddenly finding it hard to swallow, and he has the terrible premonition that he’s going to cry in front of the gods and Mario Lemieux.

“Can It be transferred?” David asks. Sully shakes his head. As a former player, he knows.

“I’ve never heard of an indwelling behaving like that, unless the god leaves Geno first of its own accord. Geno, does it seem likely it’s going to do that?”

“No. He’s like it, inside me. I don’t think he’s leave.”

Sidney reaches over and takes Zhenya’s hand, gripping it tightly. “Such a fucking stupid thing to do.”

“Ah,” Mario says, as if everything is suddenly making a lot more sense. The others’ eyebrows are making for their hairlines.

Sid takes a deep, steadying breath. “The Preds don’t have a god. Or the Canes.”

“That’s a southern thing,” David protests.

“The _entire_ KHL,” Sid insists. “I gave It everything, for years, I knew my duty and didn’t complain, but It can’t. Have. This.”

His voice cracks on his last words, and all the suits look taken aback.

“Sid,” Mario says slowly. “Have you always felt this way about your duties?”

Sidney, ever the good Canadian Boy, only says, “I don’t mind doing what’s necessary for the team. It’s my responsibility.”

The media soundbite blandness pisses Zhenya off.

“He hate,” he says harshly. “It’s hurt him, he’s worry god takes all of him. He tell me once, when he really drunk.”

“I—what?” Sidney stutters. “Geno—“

Mario stares at him in horror. “Sid.”

“It’s get worse, each time,” Zhenya continues. “Last time he do? It’s look at me and smile, with his face. Like it do with me.”

The room is silent, the only sound the faint hum of the air vents.

“Let’s think this over for a day or two,” Mario says. “Not rush into anything that could result in anyone getting hurt.”

Sid frowns darkly and rolls his eyes, as if to say, “more than they have been already.”

But there’s not really anything they can do, so they agree.

 

***

 

Sidney seems to take it for granted that Zhenya is coming home with him. They take their leave and Sid practically herds Zhenya into his car.

Zhenya dozes some more on the way over. His feet feel leaden and his head throbs as Sid unlocks his front door and then tugs Zhenya into his kitchen, depositing him on a barstool and going to the fridge to pull out a bunch of containers. He opens everything, frowns at it, and starts putting scoops of this and that on a plate according to some mysterious inner criteria.

Zhenya watches him, and his heart is suddenly so tender and aching that he can’t breathe.

“There,” Sid says, setting the plate in front of him. “There’s a lot of vitamins and proteins in that and it should be pretty easy on your stomach—“

His voice cracks and his hands tighten into fists on either side of the plate.

“Oh gods, G.”

Zhenya reaches out and tugs at him until Sid comes around the counter and Zhenya can wrap his arms around his waist and bury his face in Sid’s chest.

Sid holds him back just as tightly, one hand pressed protectively to the back of Zhenya’s head.

Zhenya doesn’t know how long he has this before the god rises back up and takes him.

He doesn’t know what to say to Sid to make any of this better,  so he just holds on.

 

***

 

Sid takes him upstairs after he manages to eat something. It speaks to Zhenya’s exhaustion that he doesn’t realize he isn’t in one of the guest rooms until after Sid has bullied him through brushing his teeth and showering off day-old postgame funk.

It’s only when Sid slides under the covers next to him that Zhenya catches on the fact that this is Sid’s room, and that he’s in Sid’s bed.

“Is this okay?” Sid asks him, as he spoons up behind Zhenya and drapes an arm over his waist.

“Yes,” Zhenya says, and laces his fingers through Sid’s. No matter what happens, he thinks to himself, at least he had this.

He wishes he could stay awake, could savor lying there with Sid warm and solid behind him, as Sid slowly strokes his thumb against Zhenya’s hand, over and over.

But he can’t stop oblivion from pulling him under, try as he might to resist.

 

***

 

In the morning, it's not Zhenya who wakes up.

 

***

 

They aren’t sitting right in the body. They—It—They— shouldn’t have let the vessel be in control for so long. The part of Their consciousness that belongs to the vessel is refusing to mesh, nothing like the voluntary surrender of the first day. It keeps sliding away, like, well. Like a loose puck from a scrum.

They— It— sits for a while, upright in the bed and puts the vessel’s consciousness in a stranglehold. It is a god, It will not tolerate this kind of rebellion. The vessel’s consciousness is angry but it lets go and curls in on itself, watchful.

Nonsense.

The old vessel stirs, and mumbles something indistinct. It opens its eyes, sees It, and goes very, very still. Slowly, it gets up, and moves across the room, never turning their back to It. The old vessel seems distressed.

_Afraid, motherfucker, he’s afraid. For me, for what you’ll do to this body. Fuck you._

The body’s lips curl involuntarily away from its teeth. The god is decidedly displeased. It is accustomed to docile and obedient vessels.

“Gods,” the old vessel says. “Holy….holy fuck. What the hell is wrong with You? The gods aren’t supposed to—“

“Do not dare to tell me what I am supposed to do or not do. We are going to the rink. Get the car, or I will have the vessel walk.”

 

***

The old vessel doesn’t speak to It again. It only drives with white-knuckled hands to the arena. After the car is parked, it turns to Them.

“Going to skate?”

It doesn’t deign to answer, just gets the vessel out of the car.

Once inside, the old vessel draws back from the double doors to the dressing room.

“You go on ahead,” it says, its tone very rough and strange. “I need to sharpen my skates in the equipment room.”

They think no more of it until they catch a brief glimpse of it speaking with the equipment manager, darting glances in Its direction.

No matter. It puts the old vessel and its strange behavior out of Its head. It has better things to do, like taking this body out on the ice.

The old vessel slips from the room, something unfamiliar glinting in its hands.

 

***

 

They are about to take to the ice when—

 

 

There’s —

 

Something rips through Them- him, and Zhenya can feel the god writhing inside him, the hold it had on him violently and abruptly loosened.

Fuck, _fuck_ , he wants to reach down his own throat and drag the fucking thing out of him. What the hell is happening?

He staggers off the ice. He can hear shouting, coming from the direction of—  

The Sanctum.

Reeling, he makes his way there, the godmarks on his skin pulsing with fading and then flaring light as the god tries to regain its hold.

Down the tunnel. Through the dressing room. Out into the hall. He stumbles and crashes sideways into the wall. There’s a knot of people near the Sanctum doors, and the rising sound of splintering and cracking.

The god screams. Zhenya isn’t sure if It uses his throat or if the sound is just everywhere.

He feels It leave him, the last sucking tendrils of Its alien mind torn away, and he falls to his knees. The godmarks wink out.

He’s alone in his head. He’s in command of his body.

There’s movement up ahead and he can see through the people standing there now, can see into the shrine.

Sid is standing in the middle of it, silver leaf drifting through the air like snow. He drops the crowbar he’s holding and it clangs to the floor.

When he comes to Zhenya, he has silver flakes like stars dusting his hair, his cheeks, the shoulders of his hoodie. When he takes Zhenya’s face in his hands, Zhenya can feel how violently they shake.

“Gone,” Zhenya says dazedly. “It’s out. _Sid_.”

Sid gets up and goes back to the shrine. When he returns to Zhenya, he opens his hand. The halved puck, the one they split in half for each other so long ago.

“This is ours now,” Sid says, and his face is so fierce, so beautiful, eyes bright and merciless as godmarks. “Just ours.”

“Yes,” Zhenya answers him, and lets Sid crumple into his shoulder, so that no one sees Sid start to cry as they hold each other upright.

 

***

 

“It asked for too much,” Sidney tells the team, standing in front of them with flakes of silver still clinging to his clothes. “It asked for all of Geno. It would have burned him out hollow. Trust me, I’d know.”

The room is silent, everyone’s stunned eyes wide as they let Sid finish.

“I know this may be frightening for some of you. But this was wrong. And I’ll stand by what I did. I’m not scared about the future. You all—“ his arms remain tightly folded but he jerks his chin at the assembled team. “I know us. I know we have everything on our own that we need to do this.”

Tanger is the first to walk over and clap a hand on Sid’s shoulder. He throws a challenging look over his shoulder at the rest of the team.

“We got our Captain and our A back, time to win a fucking hockey game,” he says, and the tension breaks, volume and spirits rising as they prepare to leave for Ottawa.

 

***

 

It takes everything left in them, but they win. During the delirious blur right after, someone hands Sid and Zhenya the Cup and they kiss it at the same time. Their hands tangle underneath the trophy and Zhenya can’t stop staring at Sid’s exhausted, scruffy, perfect face.

“Come home with me this summer,” Sid slurs much later, hair dripping with champagne. He pulls Zhenya to him with a hand on the nape of his neck. They rest their foreheads together and  stay just like that, for a moment.

“Aw, your nose,” Sid says, and laughs softly at the mess Muzz’s helmet made of Zhenya’s face.

“It’s fine,” Zhenya says, and tilts his head so that he can carefully, finally, press his lips to Sid’s.

  
  
  
  
***

 

_Epilogue_

 

The sign for the town Sid grew up in is _hilarious_. Zhenya absolutely insists that Sid pull over so he can take an obnoxious selfie with it in the background. He grins and points at the giant letters declaring Cole Harbor to be the Home of Sidney Crosby as Sid, red-faced, rolls his eyes from the driver’s seat.

“I’m make it big,” Zhenya smirks. “Put on wall.”

“You will not,” Sidney gripes, but he smiles again when Zhenya leans over and smacks a noisy kiss to his cheek.

Zhenya doesn’t expect to like Nova Scotia as much as he does. He had thought that it would be too quiet, too rural. He’s tired though, so worn thin in body and soul.

It’s good to just lay out in the sun, listening to the gentle lapping of the lake and making occasional noises of acknowledgement as Sidney prattles on about fishing and whatnot. It’s good to cram both their bodies onto one poor lounge chair as dusk falls, kissing until it gives an ominous crack and then proceeding to each insist it was the other’s outsize hockey ass that did it in.

It’s good to move around each other in the kitchen in the morning, yawning and wordlessly passing each other the tea or the milk or some other thing they know the other always has to have. It’s good to lean into each other as they sit up in bed in the evening, heads together over Sid’s tablet as they plan the trip they are making to Moscow after this.

Worries about what happened in Pittsburgh seem very far away.

A week or two in, Sid takes Zhenya to the rink he grew up skating at. It’s a big, featureless block of a building, but inside, the lobby echoes with kids’ excited voices.

There’s a giant poster of Sid too, and a glass case with an extremely promising array of photos and memorabilia that Zhenya makes a delighted beeline for. He wants to take pictures of every tiny jersey and awkward photo they have.

But Sidney grabs his arm. “Oh gods. Please, Geno. Please be chill about this.”

“No.”

Sid sighs and shakes his head. “Okay, but just a minute. There’s Someone I want you to meet.”

The altar niche is small, just off to one side of the lobby. Zhenya can sense the Presence inside it— and the difference between It and Consol’s is astounding.

There’s a thickening of the air, and Zhenya senses….calm. Peacefulness. Gentle excitement.

He looks over at Sid, and Sid is smiling.

“Hey,” Sid tells the god. “We won the Cup this year. And I want You to meet someone. This is Geno.”

The presence flares, and the unheard hum of It increases. Sid reaches into his pocket and takes out a puck. Zhenya can see the Pens and Preds logos on it: one of the pucks from the final.

“Brought you this, too,” Sid says, and he gently lays it on a stack of others. There are more offerings: broken skate laces, crumpled paper wristbands from public skates, a little plastic figure skater doll. The offerings of children.

Zhenya watches as a godmark blooms on the back of Sid’s hand. It’s like none he’s ever seen before, all delicate lines and soft white light. It glows for a handful of seconds, then fades completely.

Sid murmurs something under his breath with the cadence of one of his prayers. There’s a sound that feels like it comes from everywhere but probably only chimes inside their heads. High, sweet harmonics like the sound of bells.

Seeing and feeling this, Zhenya thinks he understands Sid a little better. He’s not about to come any closer to the niche or lay anything down himself, but he thinks he understands.

They move silently away, and a gaggle of kids burst through the doors to the rink proper, with a draft of refrigerated air.

Zhenya looks down at Sid, and he’s grinning as he watches the kids wobble across the rubberized floor in their skates to cluster around the vending machines.

“Want to make some kids’ day?” Sid says, tilting his head to smile up at Zhenya. His palpable happiness is breathtaking.

“Hey Frank,” Sid tells the older man behind the skate rental counter. They chat about his granddaughter’s first semester at her university in Halifax as he gets them some skates. Sid is gently teased about forgetting to bring his own, and Zhenya for how big his feet are.

They head out to the ice, where a handful of kids are playing a disorganized game of pickup hockey.

“We play with them?” Zhenya asks, delighted. “My team beat yours.”

“No chance,” Sid fires back, and motions Zhenya to take the ice.

“Three years— “

“Yeah, yeah, three years Superleague, _fine_ ,” Sid pretends to complain.

He takes the ice, and Zhenya follows him.


End file.
